


One Thursday Morning

by orelseatlastsheunderstoodit



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gap Filler, Gen, One Shot, Post-Episode: s08e10 In the Forest of the Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:17:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3195026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orelseatlastsheunderstoodit/pseuds/orelseatlastsheunderstoodit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another life, as another him, the Doctor didn't always treat his companions well (besides the fact that the events he and they tend to live through are fairly traumatic). He goes to (finally) apologize to one of those companions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Thursday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about having a medical practice in Britain. However, this is the setting that sprang up in my head. Enjoy!

He’d told Clara that there were mistakes he’d made, mistakes he planned to do something about. And since she basically knew everything about him, he’d once told her some of the things he’d planned on doing.

And that’s why he found himself in London (or Cardiff, he couldn’t always tell the difference, but he was pretty sure it was London) on a day he wasn’t traveling with Clara (something something PE something something sticky notes), standing outside, wondering how he could be such an idiot.

How could he stare down Daleks and Weeping Angels, Sontarans and Cybermen, but not face up to his own mistakes? Waltz into any secure area with a flash of psychic paper, swaggering with semi-feigned self-confidence, but unable to simply walk in and say sorry?

No, saying sorry wouldn’t work. He’d said that far too many times—had felt it each time, but each repetition had worn his sincerity threadbare. And the face he’d worn when he knew her, well, he’d had the habit of saying he was sorry as a default, as a shield, as a balm for when other travelers were asleep or gone and the hum of the old girl was his only company.

No, he couldn’t simply say sorry and be done with it.

He walked in.

The waiting room was nearly empty, and he made his way to the sign-in desk.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked. 

“Severe abdominal pains,” he replied, catching onto the first ailment that couldn’t necessarily be proven or disproven, not with these twenty-first century pudding-brain machines. “Can I see the doctor?”

“Sure,” she said, clearly not convinced that he was actually afflicted with said abdominal pains. “Appointment?”

He sighed and pulled out the psychic paper. “Yes,” he nearly growled (where was Clara to deal with them? grr), flipping it open for the receptionist to see. “That’s the doctor I’m here to see.”

“Ah, let’s get you to a room, Mr. Smith,” she said, and an orderly showed him to an exam room.

He sat on the table, hearts pounding. Maybe she wouldn’t believe that it was him—it had been hundreds of years and two faces for him, and only several years for her. Maybe she’d yell, blame him for things he should rightly be blamed for, even if he’d moved on since then. And the circumstances were all different, now.

And then she walked in.

“Mr. Smith?” she asked, consulting the chart that the orderly had scribbled notes on. “What’s the problem today?”

“Severe abdominal pains,” he replied. The corners of her mouth twitched, as if she were fighting to keep a smile back. How did humans make such faces, ones that said several things all at once? Clara was an expert at it.

“Well, let’s get you checked out,” she said, pulling her stethoscope off her shoulders. “In order to see if there’s anything requiring a hospital stay.”

She leaned forward and listened, then looked up at him. He winked, though no one was watching and it probably didn’t look dashing at all. In fact, he was probably sure he’d winced.

“You don’t look like you,” she said. “But it’s you all right. Isn’t it?” At his nod, she asked, “Why are you here, Doctor?”

“I’m here to apologize, Doctor Martha Jones,” he said, rumbling through her title and name as if he’d never expected to say it aloud again. “I made mistakes and I’m trying to do something about them.”

Martha smiled but her eyes looked confused. (How did humans do that? He’d have to make Clara explain.) “Apologize?”

“When we first met,” he said. “I…I…said things that hurt you. Didn’t realize it right away, but when I did, I didn’t say anything.” Each phrase hurt to say, but maybe it would be like detoxing cyanide—scary at first and then relieving. “I didn’t say thank you enough, didn’t apologize. So that’s why I came. To apologize. To say thank you.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked at him.

“I’d say I’m sorry, because I am, but you heard me say that so many times that I’m afraid it would sound insincere,” he continued. “But I am sorry. I mistreated you. And I was an idiotic ass about it, too. Doctor Jones, I am sorry.”

“Well, it’s good to finally hear you say it,” Martha said, giving him that look that only Martha Jones could. “Apology accepted. And, what, you’ve gone Scottish now? What’s that about?”

 _Amelia Pond, that’s what._ He hadn’t done it on purpose, but somehow he come out sounding like the Scottish girl in an English village and looking similar to an aged Roranicus. Rory wasn’t the face he’d frowned for himself, though, and it was still one that was too grumpy whenever it looked in a mirror. Clara kept comparing him to insects and small woodland creatures, which was both exasperating and endearing.

“I’m not the last of the Time Lords,” he said. “Still the only one in this universe, to my knowledge, however.” He looked around the exam room. “And you? No longer freelancing?”

“I consult with UNIT from time to time,” she said. “But mostly I stay out of it, unless Kate calls me in.”

He nodded. Kate was a credit to her father, that was sure. Speaking of families, he asked, “And your family? Mickey?” 

“Mickey’s fine, still going out there, tracking down interesting things,” she said. “And the rest, well, better. Tish still has nightmares some times, but no one can blame her.” Her tone of voice implied that Tish wasn’t the only one who had nightmares, but Martha Jones being Martha Jones, she didn’t add to that. How many companions had he left with nightmares? “Mum and Dad got remarried. Leo’s still a bit baffled as to why that happened, but it’s not like he can remember what we do.”

She laughed. “Sometimes it seems as if everyone has forgotten everything, not just that year. No one remembers the Daleks or the planet getting stolen, or the Cybermen invading. It’s like everyone got reset somehow.”

“Ah, that would be me. Long story but the universe got reset. I suspect you still remember because you’ve been in the time vortex.”

“So, the trees and solar flare, was that you?”

“That was just the trees, I’m afraid. But, yes, I was here.” And at the end of it, Clara had muttered something about post-it notes and had made a perplexed/anxious face, so he’d dropped her off and let her be. Sometimes what a human needed was space—and not the type of space that the S in TARDIS stood for.

“And there’s nothing going on here, is there?”

“Just came to apologize, is all.” And hope for forgiveness, but some things cut too deeply, some things couldn’t be unsaid or undone, and not all time could be rewritten. He knew that now, had seen it spool out in front of him, unable to stop or slow it, over hundreds of years in Christmas-town, on Trenzalore, both loving and loathing the crack he guarded. He couldn’t ask for forgiveness, couldn’t get the words to spill out the way they used to.

But somehow she figured it out. 

“I forgive you, Doctor,” she said, smiling and looking sad at the same time. “For what was your fault, and for what wasn’t. I couldn’t do it now, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

That was Martha Jones, taking care of him even when he didn’t know he needed taking care of. He nodded, nearly speechless. “Thank you, Martha Jones.

Martha looked at the chart again, then back at him, the emotion on her face not remotely confusing this time. “I have a feeling your severe abdominal pains have cleared up, Mr. Smith,” she said. “Am I right?”

“As always, Doctor Jones,” he replied, smiling, getting to his feet. He’d hid his face in too many hugs with her, but this time, this time there was nothing to hide, and so he allowed her to hug him. It’s not as if she knew that he wasn’t a hugging person anymore. Besides, she’d probably ignore that proscription nearly as much as Clara did. And it wasn’t a tackle, just a quick squeeze and it was over.

He’d given his greetings to Mickey and refused an invitation to dinner. That…that wasn’t him anymore, and yet he made his way back to the TARDIS, happy for once. 

He couldn’t fix what he’d done, couldn’t rewrite what he and Martha had gone through. His words couldn’t match the depth of his regret, nor his joy over the happiness she (and Mickey) had eventually found. 

Time to call Clara and let her know that he’d finally done it, that he’d swallowed his Time Lord pride (as she called it) and apologized. He’d go to hell for his companions, though he wasn’t sure they always knew that. And it’s not something he’d necessarily set out to do, all those years ago when he’d taken Barbara and Chesser—Chesterton aboard and ran away. But that was part of who he was, now.

Did that make him good? The jury was still out on that.


End file.
